Page 5 of The Forgotten
“No, my dear Quinn, not the shroud, the hair. Hair takes a lot longer to disintegrate, and I think that we are lucky enough to say that we have a strand right here.” He reached for a pair of tweezers and lifted a tiny fragment of hair off the knot in the leather. “This little fellow will tell us more than you think. I’ll run some tests and ring you as soon as I find anything out.”
“I’d be most grateful. Perhaps we can have that cup of coffee to discuss the results.”
“You’re on. Sarita, please give Dr. Allenby a copy of the results. I’m sure you’ll need to refer to the data again before this is over.”
Quinn accepted a manila folder, collected the cross, then said her goodbyes and left. It was time to begin her research and glimpse into the past, in more ways than one. She now had one more link to the victims. She never sent the necklace John Myers found at the site to a lab. There was no need. She’d taken it home and cleaned it carefully, stripping away centuries of dirt to reveal the serene faces of Madonna and child. The necklace was made of silver and must have been an object of value in the Middle Ages, especially since it came with a medal of the Virgin. Someone had placed that necklace there for a reason, and having finally found the courage to hold it in her bare hands, Quinn knew exactly who it had been, except that she didn’t yet understand the context.
On first contact, the necklace yielded confusing results. Quinn normally saw visions of the owner of an object, but the necklace seemed to carry more than one set of images. She’d use it later, after the cross, which was a direct line to the adult skeleton and would hopefully tell her story in a sequential manner. For now, it was Quinn’s little secret.
Quinn dialed Rhys to give him the preliminary results of Dr. Scott’s tests, but that wasn’t the real reason for her call, which was why she called him on his mobile instead of trying his office. Rhys answered on the first ring.
“Quinn, I hoped you’d ring today. Anything from Colin?”
“Yes, I’m just at the mortuary now,” Quinn replied as she found a quiet corner and perched on the edge of a hard plasticchair. “He needs a bit more time, but our skeletons date just around the beginning of the fourteenth century and were most likely victims of a violent crime.”
“Excellent,” Rhys gushed. Quinn could almost hear the gears shifting in his head. He was already planning the episode.
“Rhys, actually there’s something else I’d like to discuss with you,” Quinn began, her heart rate increasing in proportion to the topic she was about to broach.
“Oh yes?”
“Rhys, I’d like you to arrange a meeting with Robert Chatham and Seth Besson. I need to know which one of them is my biological father,” Quinn said. Her voice sounded flat, but she was trembling. The idea of meeting her father face-to-face was as exciting as it was terrifying.
“Quinn, darling, please don’t ask that of me. I haven’t seen either Robert or Seth since uni. To suddenly look them up and broach the subject of that night…” Rhys allowed the sentence to trail off, hoping that Quinn would appreciate his dilemma, but Quinn wasn’t about to back down.
“Rhys, you owe me this much.”
“And I’d like to help you out, but you’re asking the impossible. You know I’d love to help, but there must be another way.”
Quinn considered this for a moment. She supposed it would be terribly awkward for Rhys to do what she asked of him. Perhaps he could help her in some other way.
“Can you track them down for me? Friend them on social media perhaps? I’d like to learn as much as I can before I approach them in person.”
Rhys sighed audibly. For thirty years, he thought he was off the hook for what he’d done the night Sylvia Wyatt was raped, but the past was coming to collect its debt, and he had to pay up. “All right. I will do what I can.”
“Thanks,” Quinn replied and rang off before Rhys could say any more. She had no intention of making this easy for him.
FIVE
OCTOBER 1346
Dunwich, Suffolk
A chill wind blew off the North Sea, bringing with it the smell of brine and wood smoke, coming from somewhere downwind. The needles of a sprawling yew tree moved like tiny fingers in the breeze, the red berries swaying mournfully. Petra lowered her eyes from the ruddy face of Father Oswald and fixated on the tips of her shoes, trying desperately not to smile. She had to play the grieving widow, at least until after the burial. She supposed God saw everything and would take her happiness at the passing of her husband into account, but she’d paid with twelve years of her life for one foolish mistake; she’d served her time.
Petra stole a glance at Edwin, who stood next to his sisters and grandmother, his head bowed in prayer. No, she could never call him a mistake. Edwin was the child of her heart, her reason for being, and the only reminder of the man she’d given her heart to twelve years ago. How different her life might have been had they been allowed to marry. They’d have been a family and loving parents to the boy who now shed tears for a man who not only hadn’t been his father, but who had been cruel and indifferent to the child he believed to be his son.
But now Cyril was dead, killed by the job he so feared losing, and she was glad of it. Petra still bore the scars of his belt on her back, the fresh welts covering the old, faded ones. Tonight, she would lie by herself in a bed that had been the altar of her sacrifice, which led to years of marital abuse. She nearly giggled atthe thought of never having to endure Cyril’s attentions again, thrusting into her as she lay still as a corpse, praying for it to be over so that she could enjoy a few hours of respite before having to deal with him again come morning.
Father Oswald finally finished the service, and the diggers began to fill in the grave, eager to get the job done and repair to the inn for a well-deserved jar of ale. Petra put a hand on each of her daughters’ shoulders and walked from the cemetery, followed by her mother, who was supported by Edwin.
“Are you sad, Mama?” Ora asked, gazing up at Petra with an expression of interest. At eight, there was little she missed, so Petra tried to always be as honest as she could.
“A bit. Are you?” she asked the child.
“No,” Ora answered truthfully. “Is that very wicked of me?”
Cyril had spared the girls when they were little, but over the past year, both Ora and Elia had felt the sting of his slap more than once. In time, Cyril would have taken a belt to them for disobeying him, or simply because he could. He took pleasure in punishing them and went far beyond what was necessary to get his point across.
